Wish for More
by Whilom
Summary: Jack's life was too short for Bobby. Now it's over. And he just wishes for more.


**A/N:** So, I know that Jack didn't get any of this, but I thought he had so I wrote this. Just pretend he did. Okay? It works.

* * *

Jack got a coffin like Ma's. Don't know that he would have cared—you could never tell with Jack. But I cared. 

He got a flag, too. Draped it over the top of the coffin, surrounded by flowers, in the dead of winter. And a gun salute. Angel arranged it all, probably had to crawl on all fours to do it, but he didn't say that when he came back from seeing his commanding officer. He just hung up his jacket, went upstairs, shut the door. Sofi called but he didn't pick up the phone.

Jerry organized the flowers. I wasn't too thrilled about them, they were too phony to me, flowers in the middle of snow, but Jerry knew that people would want to show their condolences, so he arranged it.

I didn't do much at all. I drank a lot, I know that. Stayed up nights, slept days. Paced my room or drove the car—anything to stay away from the spot on the corner where Jack died. After we get this taken care of—this whole thing with Sweet—I won't come back here again. It's not that I want to abandon Jack in his grave, but I don't want to remember it. I almost decided not to go to the funeral. But Jerry tried all his powers of persuasion and Angel said he would force me to go if he had to. They said I needed it. That I'd want to have done it years from now. I don't see myself years from now. It's hard to even look tomorrow in the face. And I sure as heck can't imagine wanting to go to Jack's funeral. But I did. And he had a coffin like Ma's. With a flag draped over the top.

I looked at it, like I was supposed to, and tried not to remember how Jack had broken down giving Ma's eulogy, and how I had to help him up there in front of everybody. And I tried not to think of how everyone else must be remembering too and pitying me for being alone. I tried to keep the vengeance warm in my heart, but it was hard. With my brothers, I felt strong and ready for anything, I could _feel_ my heart beat with the justice that we would do on the man who killed our mother. But now all I feel is an empty weight in my chest that I know is my heart. It doesn't beat anymore. I can't feel it beating, I can't feel anything anymore, and I know it's because Jack died. My heart died. And it's not warm—it's just cold in my chest, as unneeded and unnatural there as those flowers were in the snow at the funeral.

I guess it all fits. Jerry saw that Jack had a softer, vulnerable side. He was the colorful one, the one who made everything look good while the rest of us added spice. So the flowers were alright. And Angel, he's the Marine, he knows when he sees a good man die. I think, that day, he saw the best. And even if he gave up the flag that they would have put on his coffin, that's alright. I don't know what I did. Probably nothing. I never did do much for Jack. Gave him a guitar, once, but I don't have any sort of token that would give some sort of hint as to what he meant to me.

I wasn't around much. Sure, I slept with him to chase off the nightmares when they came. I taught him hockey. I was there for his first date. I took him to his driver's test. I gave him tips for fights. I cleaned him up when he lost. But I don't know that I was there enough. I don't know how much would have been enough. But the more I think about it, the more I think that enough would have to have been every single day of his life. And I missed more than a few. I regret that. I regret a lot of things, but that most of all.

So at the funeral I guess the thing that I gave to Jack was me. There may have been years that I missed out of his life, but I was not going to miss a day that really mattered, not when I'd missed so many before. And, Jack, even though you weren't there to know, I was there. And I am glad that I was there. I wish that I had been there before. That's as close to an apology as you're going to get, little brother. But I just wish there had been more. More days, more talks, more hockey games, more wrestling matches, more food fights, more time, and more of me to go with it. I'm sorry, Jack. And I do wish. I wish there had been and will be more.

I wished there had been more when you were lying in the snow, Jack.

My wishes never come true.


End file.
